An Ocean Between Us
by Mlee.Write
Summary: Set 5 years in the future, post Red John. Jane and Lisbon have been separated.
1. Chapter 1

Title: An Ocean Between Us

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T

Spoilers: Through the current season

Summary: Set 5 years from the current season, post Red John. Jane and Lisbon have changed. Angst. Romance. Darker than my usual fare.

A/N: I'm still working on the Devil You Know and struggling to end it. Every time I come up with an ending, I keep writing through it. I'll keep posting updates as they come. In the meantime, the idea for this story showed up and beat me over the head. It feels like I'm writing a Mentalist Harlequin Presents/ Mills & Boon Modern book (a series I keep reading despite all the WTFery). Except if that were the case it would be called something like The Consultant's Defiant Mistress or some BS like that.

Chapter titles from Sarah Brightman Songs

Illusions That You're Longing For

Teresa drew the black wool coat more tightly around her and drew in a lungful of chilly air. The lights of the Cadillac Palace Theatre marquee blinked and glittered in the wintery night, replacing the stars that the city lights obscured. She shifted her weight, leg aching in the bitter cold, and reached into her pocket, letting her fingers brush against the paper ticket there.

For a moment she debated hailing a cab and leaving, chickening out. She forced herself to look at the marquee again—at those neon words 'Psychic Patrick Jane: One Night Only!'. Her stomach felt sour, her tongue coated with acid.

People bumped her, hurrying out of the cold and into the theatre. She couldn't just keep standing in the middle of the sidewalk. She had to make a choice.

She steeled her resolve and walked into the foyer, passing the ticket to the attendant at the gate. He scanned it, his expression bored, and let her through. The theatre was packed, and why wouldn't it be? Patrick Jane, world renown psychic was in Chicago for one night only. Tickets had sold out a mere ten minutes after they had gone on sale. She had to buy hers from a scalper, for triple the cost. Money she could hardly afford to spend now, she thought bitterly. Her leg twitched as if to drive the point home.

She glanced at the elevator, and the line of wheel-chair bound geriatrics waiting for it. Stubbornness and pride made her take the stairs. Pain flared in her quadriceps as she climbed the richly carpeted steps, her hand resting carefully on the bannister.

She found her seat, closer to the stage than she'd expected, and sat down, folding her coat in her lap. The excited titter of the audience filled her ears. The woman in the seat next to her clutched a hardback copy of _Beyond the Veil_ by Patrick Jane, his handsome face smiling up from the glossy cover.

For a second she debated leaving again.

The crowd grew silent as the lights dimmed, and the announcer began listing off Jane's accolades. A best-selling book. An Emmy-nominated cable television show—one that _Jane _walked away from after twelve episodes, she reminded herself. Hundreds of sold out shows.

She felt the audience's awe, it's tension, it ratcheted through her, filling her with anxiety. When the curtain rose and the man in question appeared, blond as an angel and wearing a shining silver suit, they erupted into applause. She felt a dam burst inside of her, and instead of clapping, held her hand over her mouth as she choked back a sob.

He was half a theatre away, lit by spotlight as bright as the sun, and yet he'd never been farther from her. She wanted so badly to reach him, and realized that she couldn't. It was like she was under glass, unable to break through.

Even if she had stood up and screamed for him, it would have been drown out by the rest of the crowd.

He looked better than ever, tan, trim, wearing a suit that was immaculately pressed and tailored for him. His tie was a royal blue that made his eyes look the same color from a distance. She knew they were really green. She doubted anyone else here did.

Somehow all the fine clothes and fit appearance were less appealing to her than the bedraggled, wrinkled Jane she remembered. She remembered his three piece suits, archaic and so appealing, his sleep wrinkled face, his messy hair. A feeling very like grief coursed through her.

His voice was smooth as fine brandy when he said, "Ladies and gentlemen of Chicago, a city I _love_—"

He paused to let the audience cheer, his eyes scanning the crowd. She wondered if he'd see her, but realized it was impossible with the distance and the footlights.

"Are you ready," he asked silkily, "to cross beyond the veil of this world and into the next?"

A hush of anticipation fell over the crowd.

"Are you ready to reach past this mortal coil and touch the ones who have departed, the ones we remember yet?"

She rolled her eyes. He was laying it on thick.

His lowered his voice to a nearly seductively pitch. "Will you join me on this journey?"

The audience erupted yet again, and she clenched her hands in her lap so hard that her nails bit into the skin leaving bloody half-moons smiling at her.

X X X

There was a throng of groupies waiting to go backstage, most of them women, most of them young. Their clothes were bright and glittering, clinging to their bodies. They tittered and squawked like brightly colored tropical birds. She felt ancient among them, her black dress modest and dull.

A bodyguard, she presumed, kept them at bay, looking annoyed at their squabbling. She used her elbows to push through the crowd and to the front of the line. She ignored the women as they protested and sniped at her. Someone tugged on her hair, and she made sure her shoe landed on a heel-clad toe.

She looked up the guard. "I'd like to see Patrick Jane," she said firmly.

Her stomach flipped at those words. Once it had been "Jane, get in my office, _now_." Now she wasn't sure she could get to him, close as he was. He was suddenly, painfully, out of her grasp.

The bodyguard looked down at her, unimpressed. "Get in line." He was easily seven feet tall and had gone from muscle largely to fat. The black tee-shirt he wore beneath his jacket was stretched over his belly, where his hands were clasped. He looked above her, ignoring her and the crowd behind her.

"I think he'll want to see me," she insisted. "Please tell him I'm here."

"He'll see as many people as he has time for," the man said irritably. "And don't tell me you're an old friend, okay? I've heard it all, lady."

She clenched her teeth for a moment, then said, "I'm Teresa Lisbon. I wouldn't say I'm a friend."

Now the man looked at her, eyes widening slightly. He uncrossed his arms and said, "ID?"

She opened her billfold and flashed her badge.

From behind her she heard a whisper of "_That's_ Teresa Lisbon?"

The man grunted. "He said if you ever showed up to let you through." She felt shocked at his words; relieved. She hadn't expected Jane to still think of her at all.

He moved aside to let her pass. The other women in line let out wailing complaints. She ignored them. "Down the hall. To the left. You'll know it when you see it," he muttered.

She followed the hallway as far as it went, then turned to the left as he directed. Backstage was much less glamorous than the lobby of the theatre had indicated. Everything was painted industrial gray and smelled of dust.

The first door in front of her was shut, although she her heard giggling emanating from behind the wood. There was no gold star on the door, but she knew where she was.

She knocked, more tentatively than she would have liked.

"Come in," came Jane's voice, light and filled with laughter.

She took a breath, and pushed the door open.

**A/N: Yes, I'm evil and ending it there. The chapters for this fic will be longer, but I'm setting this up as a prologue. Also, I'm mean. Please review and let me know what you think. It's very different from anything I've done before.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**I am Your Longing, a Little of Your Pain**_

Patrick Jane was sitting on a couch in his dressing room, a giggling honey-blonde half draped over him. A bottle of wine sat open on the table next him, two plum-colored glasses poured and waiting. His leg was extended across the couch; the woman very nearly lying on top of him. A sound system played somewhere, a tenor singing _Nessun Dorma_.

Jane was sprawled out in his usual insolent way, his jacket, tie and vest discarded. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a V of tanned skin. His smile, white and crooked and perfect, vanished the second he saw her.

The blonde sat up, clearly sensing a threat as Teresa hovered in the doorway. Her purple dress was skin-tight, showing off ample cleavage and toned legs. She pushed her hair out of her face, scowling. "We're having a private reading," she said acidly.

"Really? Looked to me like you were about to unbutton his pants," Teresa said her tone even and passionless, non-judgmental.

The blonde all but snarled. "Who the hell—"

"Teresa," Jane said.

She felt the purr of the z's he added to her name rubbing against her spine.

"I came to the show," she said, still standing in the doorway. It was almost an accusation.

"Baby, who is this?" the blonde asked, turning to Jane. Her tone belied her insecurity.

"I have another meeting," Jane said firmly, standing up, and the other woman had to move to prevent from being deposited on the floor.

"What the hell, Patrick?" she demanded, snatching her purse up from the table.

"I'll catch up with you later, baby," he promised, shining his thousand watt smile at her.

She stalked out of the room, clearly not mollified. At the doorway she sneered at Teresa, and intentionally shoved her weight into her. Teresa stumbled, her hip hitting the doorjamb, pain flaring in her leg. She caught her balance but didn't move into the small room.

She clutched the doorjamb so hard her fingers ached. More than anything she wanted to go to him, to wrap her arms around his neck and tell him she missed him. She also wanted to punch him. The conflict was making her stomach hurt.

She watched as whatever shock Jane felt at seeing her again vanished behind his usual cavalier mask. He was all shallow charm and sparkle once again, and she felt bereft.

"Came for the show, eh, Teresa?" he asked brightly, picking up his glass of wine and taking a swig. "I really didn't expect you ever to attend one."

"Then why did you tell your bodyguard to let me through if I ever showed up?" she asked quietly. She folded her arms in front of her, her jacket hiding her trembling hands. It was the medication, she told herself, not Jane, affecting her.

"I also gave him Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt's names," he said so smoothly that it was obvious he was snubbing her. "I'd hate to have an old friend standing out in the cold."

"You don't have many friends anymore, Jane." Her voice was nearly a whisper. Disappointment made her shoulders sag.

He cocked his head, grinned. "Of course I do. Sarah there, she was a friend."

"She was a groupie about to give you a blow job," she replied dryly.

Jane gasped. "Teresa Lisbon, such a filthy mind," he said in mock surprise. "I remember when you said 'sheep dip.'"

She ignored him. His expression flickered, just for a micro-second, giving her the opportunity to watch doubt cross his perfect features. Had she not known him for almost a decade, not loved him for half of that, she would have missed it.

"Well don't just stand there, come in," he said. "Sit down."

She moved tentatively into the room, but avoided the couch as if it was contaminated. It might well have been.

"I'm not going to pounce on you, Teresa," he chided, reaching down for the other wineglass. He offered it to her but she shook her head. He rolled his eyes. "Come on, at least put your coat down."

She sighed and let her wool jacket drop to the couch.

Jane took a sip of his wine, scrutinizing her for a moment from behind the glass.

"You've put on weight," he remarked casually, using his glass to gesture to her chest. "Looks good on you."

Her jaw tightened in anger. "I don't run anymore."

"Hmm." He finished the glass, then poured more. "You're sure I can't convince you?" He asked "It's an excellent, smooth, pinot noir. French."

His voice was so casual, so dismissive.

She felt anger rise up in her, the kind that made her feel hot and jumpy. Her sadness, her disappointment melted away under the onslaught of rage that burned in her belly. She missed her Jane so badly it hurt, and here she was staring at him, and unable to reach him again. He was a different man now. A man he'd chosen to become. He was a coward.

She let her fingers brush her skirt. She was different now too, she realized, tears very nearly threatening to spring to her eyes.

"Spare me the bullshit," she snapped. "I came to see if you'd really sold out, and I guess I was right."

Jane arched a blonde eyebrow and smirked. "_Sold out_, Teresa? I'm a millionaire. I hardly _sold out_." His voice was hard.

"You know what I mean," she said hotly.

"You mean I'm not on some pointless quest to bring justice to the world for a mere pittance, then yes, that's true," he said venomously. "I bring people hope, Teresa, is that so wrong?"

"You lie to them. Prey on their grief," she replied coldly. "And why are you suddenly calling me Teresa?"

"Well, you're hardly my boss anymore. Haven't been for five years." He snorted. He set his glass down on the table and flopped back on the couch, lazy and irreverent again. He patted the cushion next to him. "Sit down."

She sucked air between her teeth and bent to snatch her jacket. "I shouldn't have come here."

He rolled his eyes, "Teresa, don't."

But she had her jacket bunched up in her fists and was already marching to the door.

At the doorway she stopped and turned. "I came to see if it was true, if you really became_ this_ again." Her voice was shaking with anger.

Jane threw back his head and sighed as if annoyed. "I always _was_ this, Teresa. I was just lying for _your_ team back then."

She shook her head. "Goodbye, Jane. I'm sorry I came."

He groaned. "Don't be like that, sweetheart."

Something inside her, taught as a bow-string, snapped. "Don't call me sweetheart! Don't you dare! I was your friend, not one of your…whores."

He looked at her as if she was mad.

"It's a term of endearment," he said dryly, slinging one arm across the back of the couch.

"It's more superficial charm," she muttered.

"Please, sit down," he asked more gently. "I haven't seen you in half a decade."

She turned, muttering a goodbye as she left. Maybe it was the heels she'd foolishly worn, or the fact that she was stalking off angrily, or the way Sarah had slammed into her, but a bullet of fire shot through her leg, forcing her to grab the doorjamb and gasp.

Jane was on his feet in an instant, one hand at her waist. She shook him off.

"I'm fine," she mumbled, feeling the color drain from her face.

"Don't bother trying to lie to me," he said dismissively.

She put weight on her leg and to her humiliation felt the muscle quiver and give. Sweat beaded on her brow.

Jane wrapped his arm around her. The minute she smelled his cologne she was taken back to when he was her consultant, her best friend. She wanted to turn in his arms and inhale his scent, rest her cheek against his shoulder like she had done when they had danced. She wanted to feel safe with him. It was a longing so intense it was physically painful, like something inflating inside her chest, leaving no room for breathing or a heartbeat.

She squeezed her eyes closed.

"Let me help you," he said softly. He was slowly taking more of her weight into his arms, letting her ease up on her injured leg.

Full of shame and yearning she let him half carry her to the couch. He helped her sit down, hung up her coat, and then moved the other side of the room to a small mini bar. He pulled a bottle of water out of it and brought it back to her.

The pain was subsiding, and she sat, rubbing her thigh through the fabric of her dress, fingers massaging the muscle.

"Need help?" he asked, his voice silky and low.

She looked up at him, her expression irritated.

"Right," he sighed.

"There's a bottle of pills in my jacket pocket, she muttered.

Nessun Dorma had ended awhile ago and O Mio Babbino Caro had replaced it. The soprano's voice seemed stretched too thin.

He retrieved the amber prescription bottle and read the label. "Heavy stuff."

"Yeah," she muttered, not looking him in the eyes. He handed her the bottle and she swallowed one of the pills with a sip of water.

He stood in front of her, hands in his pockets, studying her. He was so ridiculously handsome in shirtsleeves, she thought bitterly.

"So what happened?" he asked.

"Really? Are we on to sharing now?" she asked sarcastically.

"Hmm. Defensive," he observed.

"Just give me a minute," she snapped. "Then I'll be out of here."

He sighed again in exasperation. "You obviously came here to see me, Teresa, and you knew what I was when you showed up, so spare me the drama. You want to talk or you wouldn't have come."

She clenched her jaw again, knowing he was right but unwilling to admit to it. "Maybe I had to see for myself," she muttered.

Carefully, as if afraid to spook her, he sat down on the opposite end of the couch. He crossed his leg over his knee, reaching for his wine. He kept the distance between them. "Another lie," he observed. "You would have come to one of my shows years ago. Or, I don't know,_ called_ me?" he added sarcastically. He leaned forward a little bit, studying her. "Something traumatic happened to you, and it's thrown you off kilter, and now you're out looking for something. I bet you aren't even sure what."

She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could take him up on his offer of booze now. It was too late, not after the pain pill. Quietly she said, "I was shot."

He sipped his drink but said nothing, waiting for her to continue. His arrogance was galling.

"I was shot and I'm on disability," she repeated. "I came home for a while, to get my bearings, and you were here, so I…" She shook her head. "This was a huge mistake."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said. She couldn't tell anymore if he was being genuine or not.

He asked, "They didn't have a desk job for you?"

She smiled bitterly. "I've burned a few bridges since you left."

All he said was "Hmm."

She let her fingers trail over where the scar would be. "So, that's my sob story, Jane. Quite honestly, I'm sorry I came here and told it to you." Her words turned to acid. "Maybe I should have gotten my book signed while I was here, huh?"

"Did you read it?" he asked.

"Of course not," she snapped.

She pushed herself to her feet, waiting a moment to test her weight on her leg, then walked cautiously to the door. She grimaced at the slight limp she knew she was displaying. She grabbed her coat from the hook on the back of the door.

Jane stayed on the couch, made no move to help her. "You're staying with James?"

"None of your business," she muttered. "Goodbye, Jane. Thanks for the water."

Not rising, he held up his hand and wiggled her prescription bottle, the little pills clacking together. "Forgot your medicine," he said dryly.

A muscle in her jaw ticked. "Are you going to hand it to me or be an ass?" she asked. She was already dreading the walk through the theater to the street where she had to stand to hail a cab.

"Ass," he said, his voice lightening a bit. He stood up, tucking her pills in his pocket. "Actually, I'm going to take you to dinner and then drive you home."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "No thanks, just give me my pills and I'll be going."

"I'm holding them hostage until you have dinner with me," he said, pulling his own jacket off the back of a chair. "You need to eat when you take that kind of medicine. Besides, it's been five years, humor me."

"I spent long enough doing that," she said coldly. "I'll just get them refilled." She turned and stepped into the hall.

"There's at least fifty pills in there," he called after her. "It's a controlled substance. You can't get a refill for weeks yet."

She sucked in a breath, realizing he was right.

Behind her, he shut the door to the dressing room. "We'll go to the Palm," he said casually, as if they were still friends. He reached over and slipped her arm through his. His jacket was soft on her hand.

"I'd forgotten how much of a weasel you are," she said coldly.

"No you didn't," he argued. "You just lie to yourself and pretend I'm a better man than I am."

She felt a twinge of sadness as she realized he was right.

_**A/N: Please review? Pretty please?**_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: I have some reservations about this story, namely about Jane. I hope that you stick with me, and please, let me know how you feel in a review or PM, good, bad or indifferent.

Also minor warning for language.

_**Dust in the Wind**_

Teresa leaned on Jane for support as they exited the theater. It pained her to do so, but her medication hadn't quite kicked in yet, and the alternative of falling in front of him seemed more embarrassing. They left through a back entrance and walked the short distance to a side street where a black Town Car sat idling.

The air was damp and cold, hovering just above freezing. Chilly mist settled in her hair and made her joints ache. Jane opened the car door, then paused and wrapped his scarf around her neck. "It's cold out," he observed quietly.

The soft cashmere snuggled around her neck, still warm from his skin and smelling of his cologne. His own unique scent clung to it as well, a scent that she had always thought of sunny and warm. She remembered when her office smelled of him and his tea, homey and inviting.

She slid into the backset of the car and Jane slipped in beside her. He gave the driver the destination, then turned back to her.

"Too bad the Berghoff closed. They had the best peach cobbler," he said conversationally, as if they were still friends.

"Are you going to give me my pills after dinner or will you keep up this ridiculous game?" she asked frostily.

He mused for a moment. "Do you still carry?"

"No."

"Then no promises."

She regarded him skeptically. "I'm pretty sure I can still kick your ass, bum leg or no."

He just grinned, cheekily.

She looked out her window, unwilling to engage in small talk with him. Tires hissed on wet pavement, and the streetlights seemed streaky and wild in the night, like streams of red and white paint running down a black canvas. It took her a moment to realize that she was drifting off into a narcotic haze. She did need food, just like Jane had suggested.

The Palm wasn't far. Jane helped her out of the car, gave the driver instructions to return the next day, and then escorted her out of the rain.

The restaurant, attached to the Swissotel, was bustling with activity. It was a Saturday night, and she suspected they were busy with hotel patrons who were unwilling to go out into the rain to find dinner as well.

Jane pushed up to the hostess, and despite the line at the door, managed to get them a table immediately. He looked back her and smiled, gesturing for her to follow him into the restaurant. She sighed, pushing through the crowd to trail after him.

They were seated in an intimate booth and handed two large menus. She unwound the scarf and handed it back to Jane as she shrugged out of her jacket.

"Keep it," he said absently, waving his hand at her while he looked down, studying the menu.

She sighed, not willing to fight, and tucked it under her coat.

She looked at the menu, but nothing seemed appetizing. Really all she wanted was a hot cup of strong, black coffee to pull her out of her fog.

It turned out it didn't matter. Jane ordered for both of them, presumptuous as always, and she barely managed to add her coffee to the order before the waitress left.

"It's annoying when you do that," she said, sipping her water.

"I do lots of annoying things," he observed, blithely. "You're going to need to be more specific."

"When you order for me," she said. "It's chauvinistic."

"If I had let you pick you would have gotten a salad or something boring and missed the goat-cheese whipped potatoes entirely," he remarked. "And you need something hearty. It's miserable out and you look tired."

She merely grunted an acknowledgement. The truth was she hadn't been sleeping well since she'd been shot and she was unwilling to take more medication than necessary. The loss of her routine, of her identity as a cop, kept her awake at night, or tossing in a fitful gray sleep.

Their drinks came and she accepted her coffee gratefully, letting the warmth of the beverage seep into her through the cup.

She studied him silently. This close to him she could see faint lines around his mouth and eyes, lines that hadn't been there five years ago. She noticed, with some surprise, that a few of the hairs along his temples had gone gray.

"You don't look so hot yourself," she observed emotionlessly. "Is the party-boy lifestyle too much for you?"

He gave her a cynical smile and said, "I'm hardly snorting cocaine off the backs of groupies, Teresa. A few drinks, a few women, that's all."

As he reached for his glass of wine his shirt sleeve rolled up, exposing an expensive gold watch.

She'd gotten the knock-off version at her retirement. Fifteen years with the CBI, the best closure rate in the history of the division, and she got a cheap watch and a pittance for disability.

_None of it matters._

For a second, she understood how he had felt when Red John died.

"_Red John is dead."_

_The words hung in the air around her, her mind uncomprehending. _

_The phone call was a personal courtesy from the Sacramento chief of police. Red John had been her case; he respected that._

_The announcement was followed by, "You need to come down here."_

_The man's name had been Peter Fife, and his body had long since been removed when she arrived at his house. Jane trailed behind her, edgy, twitchy. He put his hands in his pockets, took them, put them back in again. He seemed to want to touch everything in the small two-story house, and yet not taint any of it._

_He looked a picture of Fife and some woman, hanging on the wall, and said weakly, "I don't even recognize him."_

_Fife had been found by a coworker when he failed to show up for work after several days. He had been lying on his couch, peaceful. The assumed cause of death was a heart attack._

_But he had been alone, and the death ruled suspicious, and so the police had combed his house looking for evidence of foul play while they waited for the autopsy results, and that was when they'd found it._

_She followed an officer into the basement, a musty smell filling her nostrils. The basement was finished, but from the smell, had flooded once. _

_She and Jane stood at the bottom of the steps, greeted by hundreds of crimson smiles—demented, wicked smiles._

_By itself it wasn't much proof—but then there were the files… and the mementos._

_Days later, sleepless and hyper-caffeinated, she and Jane sat cross-legged on her office floor, sorting through one file after another. Details on every victim, some of whom they'd never known about. He'd stalked each one and kept meticulous records: photos, calendars of activity, painstaking notes, sketches. On the last page was a small memento stolen from the crime scene-usually a lock of hair or a scrap of fabric._

_She looked at Charlotte's. A lavender ribbon._

_Jane held the files for his wife and child in his lap, staring at them, unseeing. Finally, fingers trembling he opened one._

"_Jane," she said softly. "You don't have to."_

_He ignored her. She watched him read, watched his every expression, vigilant for his grief. Instead she saw confusion._

_He flipped pages more quickly, then opened the other file. _

"_Jane?"_

"_The dates," he said raggedly._

_She leaned toward him, touching his arm. _

_He held the paper out to her. "The dates don't match, Lisbon."_

_Biting her lip she cocked her head to read._

_Peter Fife, Red John, had been stalking and photographing Angela and Charlotte for months before Jane had appeared on that television show._

_They had been his intended victims all along._

_His voice hoarse he said, "Do you know what this means?"_

_She squeezed his arm, "It was never your fault, Jane."_

_He looked up at her, and his eyes were wet with tears. "He didn't kill them because of me, Lisbon. There was no point to any of this. It was…random." The word 'random' came out with a great exhalation of breath, very nearly a bellow._

"_Violence is senseless," she offered, faltering a little. He was trembling so hard beneath her hand that it frightened her. "At least you know…"_

"_And he died in his sleep!" Jane exploded, standing up, papers scattering to the floor. "He died quietly in his fucking sleep!" He ran his hands through his hair, his breathing harsh and ragged. "He didn't kill them for any reason. He doesn't get punished. There's no reason for any of it. None of it matters."_

Her coffee was as bitter as the memory. She sipped it, noticing Jane scrutinizing her.

"You went away for a minute there," he said.

"Lost in thought," she replied quietly, her words sad.

"No point in reminiscing over what can't be changed, Teresa," he chided. "The only thing to do is enjoy today." He lifted his wine in a toast before sipping it.

"I don't have much to enjoy," she said, then immediately regretted how self-pitying it sounded.

"Nonsense," Jane said, as the waitress began setting their food down. "You have this excellent meal."

He'd ordered her a steak, medium-rare, with sides of asparagus and potatoes. Before she'd cut into her meat he was already scooping the whipped potatoes onto her plate. "These are excellent," he said.

"Better than eggs?" she asked sarcastically.

"My tastes run to finer things these days," he said casually, but she sensed the wire of tension in his voice, a hint of anger.

Despite her lack of appetite she found herself eating more than she'd expected, her body craving the food her mind had no interest in.

He carved into his steak, blood pooling on his plate. "How were you shot?" he asked in the same tone he'd ask about the weather.

"Breaking down the door of a suspect's house," she said flatly. "He wasn't even guilty as it turns out. _Random. Pointless_."

She let the two words hang between them, untouchable, like something poisonous. His words.

His jaw ticked in anger. "So much in life is," he said. He stabbed a bite of meat with his fork. It was an angry gesture.

Her patience snapped, the edges already so frayed that she felt like she was being held together by a thread. She stood up and tossed her napkin down on the table. "Thanks for dinner," she said harshly, angrily. "See you around, Jane."

He grabbed her wrist, and had she not been still buzzed from that pill, she would have hit him out of pure reflex.

"Sit down," he ordered, his voice glacial.

"Screw you, Jane. You and all your ugly lies." The minute the words left her mouth she felt her anger crumbling away to grief, to disappointment—in him and in herself. Tears spilled over her cheeks, hot on her skin.

The painkillers were making her emotionally fragile, she though desperately.

He tugged on her arm. "Sit down." His voice was softer, but not kinder.

She did, letting her head fall into her hands. She could sense him watching her, studying her, and she hated it. She took deep breaths, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. She didn't sob. She collected herself.

"You're tired," he observed. "You've had a long day and you're in pain."

She didn't reply, just wiped at her face. She noticed that other diners were sneaking covert glances at them.

How far she'd fallen, she thought bitterly. Teresa Lisbon having a melt-down in a restaurant.

Dinner half-eaten, Jane reached into his pocket and threw a massive pile of bills on the table. "Well, get room service," he said, helping her stand.

She clutched her coat. "What?"

He wrapped his arm around her waist as he guided her from the restaurant. "You'll stay with me tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Now That You're Here, Now That I've Found You**_

"Screw you, Jane," Teresa muttered, stalking out of the restaurant as best she could. It was crowded, and her leg felt stiff, and she had to grab the wall for support several times.

The medication had kicked in full force, eliminating the pain from her leg, but making her feel fuzzy-headed and flush, her thoughts on a millisecond delay. She squeezed past the crowd at the hostess station, grateful to be in lobby where chilly winter air was blowing in through the doors. She swallowed lungful's of it, letting the icy bite drive some of the sleepiness away. She forced her arms through her coat, and tugged it up roughly, feeling something soft fall out of her sleeve. Jane's cream colored scarf floated the floor.

A tanned hand picked it up and handed it to her. She glowered at Jane.

"For the record," he said, "I wasn't offering sex."

She huffed, ignored the scarf.

He shrugged and tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Of course, if you're offering, I wouldn't decline," he drawled, "but given your emotional state, we should probably abstain tonight."

"Why the hell do you think I want to stay with you?" she snapped. In her head she was doing mental calculations, trying to determine if she had enough cash to get a cab to the L. She didn't think she could walk to the nearest platform.

"Well, you certainly don't want to go back to James's," he explained. "You love your brothers but you've always avoided him and his family, made excuses on the holiday…" He trailed off, then looked at her seriously. "I can't imagine you feel good about accepting his hospitality. Besides, wasn't his wife always a little bit of a bitch?"

Everything he said was true, and it galled her. She thought about her guestroom in James's palatial house, how chilly and unwelcome it felt. She was the disabled sister, a burden he felt too guilty to turn out. Since she nearly raised him, James certainly wouldn't cast her out, but he wasn't thrilled she was living with him either.

"How do you know I'm staying with James?" she asked more out of curiosity than anything. It certainly didn't surprise her that he'd figured it out.

Jane reached out and plucked something from her the shoulder of her coat. "Long blonde hair," he remarked. "The coat is too long for you, and not your style. It smells of someone else's perfume. You borrowed it from your sister-in-law."

"I could have borrowed it from a friend, or bought it second hand," she remarked, scowling. "Or just bought new perfume."

He leaned forward, placing one hand on her hip, his face dangerously close to her neck. Her pulse ticked erratically and she leaned backward instinctively. Jane tightening his grasp, steadying her. He inhaled delicately.

He leaned back, but kept his hand on her, his distance too close for friends or casual acquaintances. "No, the perfume is expensive, something sweet with vanilla top notes. You, my dear, prefer something with some spice. This coat came from a rich woman, and if you're on disability, that's not you." He studied her face, refusing to break eye contact. "No, you came here on a whim or out of desperation, which meant you had limited time to plan and limited funds. You're staying with your brother and wearing his wife's cast offs."

The lobby door opened again letting a damp wind blow though. It blew her hair into her face. She took a step away from him as she brushed the strands from her cheeks.

"And staying with you is the better option?" she asked sarcastically.

"It will take you an hour to take a cab to Northbrook," he said. "Probably more in traffic."

Two hours by train, she thought miserably.

"And I have a nice, warm bed upstairs. Just an elevator ride away," he offered, his voice pitching a note lower. "You're exhausted and in pain. You need to rest. Quite frankly if you don't stay with me, I'll worry about you getting home safely."

Much more cruelly than she'd intended, she said, "I find it very hard to believe that you're going to worry about me, Jane."

"Then you don't know me at all," he said bitterly.

She leaned back on her heels, her mind turning slowly, her body stiff and protesting. She desperately wanted sleep, and she didn't want to go back to her brother's place where she was clearly unwelcome. She just wanted to put her head down now, to stop thinking for a little while.

"Where will you sleep?" she asked, her voice still hard, a warning implicit.

"Wherever you want me," he replied with an easy grin. "Would you like me to sleep at the foot of your bed, Teresa, like your faithful servant?"

She snorted.

"Curled around you perhaps?" he added more seductively. "Holding you against me, keeping you warm?"

A shiver ran up her spine.

He grinned, clearly pleased at her reaction.

"I hope there's a couch up there," she muttered.

"Of course," he said, carefully wrapping his arm around her waist and leading her to the bank of elevators. "I'm still optimistic that you'll change your mind about the cuddling, though."

She made a disapproving noise, too tired to even summon words.

Once in the elevator, she leaned against him, letting him support her weight. She felt exhausted beyond measure, not just from the medication, surely. She wondered at the Pandora's box of emotion that seeing him had summoned up in her: anger, grief, regret, longing. She was standing next to Jane, breathing in his scent, and yet missing him all the same time. It was disorienting.

The elevator doors opened and he took her hand, leading her down the hall to his room. He slipped the keycard into the lock, then pushed open the door.

She walked in first, turning on lights, and studying her surrounds wearily. He had a full living room and kitchenette with dining area. She walked into the bedroom, stopping at the king-sized bed. There was a sitting area in one corner of the room, complete with a sofa and two chairs near a floor to ceiling window. His window faced out over the Chicago River and Lake Michigan, over-looking Navy Pier. The Ferris wheeled glittered neon white and red in the night.

She touched the duvet, the silky, shimmering blue and white pattern. With a sigh, she removed her jacket and placed it on the bed.

Behind her, she heard him toss his keys onto the table. He walked past her to the window and pulled the curtains shut, then shucked his coat and dropped it on one of the chairs. He kicked off his shoes.

"Where is your luggage?" she asked.

"Already unpacked and put away," he said. "I'm all moved in. It helps when all you bring is a change of clothes."

She felt a little dizzy. She shut her eyes. "You're not staying then?"

"I leave tomorrow."

Good, she thought. No matter what happened here, there would be a clean break.

"You're exhausted," he said quietly. "Here, let me help you."

He knelt at her side, taking her stocking-clad calf in his hand, warmth seeping into her skin. He raised her leg gently, then used his other hand to slip her pump from her foot. He repeated the gesture with her other shoe, leaving both standing at the end of the bed. She wiggled her toes in the carpeting.

He stayed on his knees, looking up at her with dark, hooded eyes. His finger trailed up and down her leg, just the barest of touches, feather-light and playful. "Can I see?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.

It took a moment for her to understand. When she did, she closed her eyes and nodded.

Softly his fingers trailed up to her knees, leaving little paths of fire in their wake. He brushed the hem of her dress, pushing it up her thighs one agonizing inch at a time. His hands slipped to the backs of her legs, fingers splayed, his thumbs holding the black fabric up.

She heard his breath hitch when he saw the scar, the little knot of white tissue on her thigh. His hands squeezed gently and a burst of arousal coursed through her, embarrassing and inevitable.

She felt a puff of warm air as he leaned forward and kissed the scar softly, reverently. Her stomach tightened, her body aching in an entirely different way.

He leaned back on his heels, staring at the wound a little sadly, then looked up her again. The sight of him on his knees in front of her was almost more than she could bear.

With a sigh he stood, taking her dress with him, lifting it up and over her head in a smooth motion.

She gasped in shock, her arms crossing over her chest instinctively. "Jane!" she shouted, her face flushing.

He leaned forward so quickly she barely processed it, and pressed a hot kiss to her mouth. She drew in a breath and he pulled away, just as quickly. "I'll get you one of my shirts to sleep in," he said, tossing her dress on a chair and walking to the hallway.

Her mind buzzed as she heard him open the closet door. Presumptuous didn't begin to describe him.

He reappeared holding a white button-up shirt. "I always bring a spare," he said, holding it out to her.

Keeping one arm over her breasts, she snapped, "Turn around."

He just grinned and put his hands in his pockets.

Growling under her breath, she turned her back to him. She unsnapped her bra and quickly put the shirt on, aware he was watching her. She hastily buttoned it then pulled her pantyhose off from beneath it.

She felt Jane's warmth on her back as he approached. He didn't touch her, but reached past her and pulled the duvet and sheet down.

She slipped into the bed feeling frustrated and resigned all at the same time. "If you're waiting for me to invite you in, you're going to be disappointed," she said stubbornly. "You're taking the couch."

He grinned, tugging the blankets up to her chin. The sheets were sinfully soft, not scratchy and stiff like the hotels she was used to staying in. Had be used to staying in, she amended. She didn't travel for work anymore.

"If you change your mind, just call out," he told her playfully. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

She took a breath and closed her eyes, sleep pressing down on her with a gentle weight. The bed was warm and soft and welcoming. She heard him turn the bedside light off.

She drifted in and out of sleep, her limbs heavy and fatigued. Before succumbing completely she glanced to the other end of the room, where Jane was sprawled on the couch, fully clothed, his arms folded behind his head. He'd snatched a pillow from beside her.

A smile, feline smiled graced his lips. It was so familiar, so comforting, that she slipped into slumber immediately.

**A/N: Reviews are awesome!**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note: You guys are amazing. You're reviews inspired me to get up off my butt and write this chapter today, rather than sitting on it for awhile. It's a doozy. I think I need a nap or a cry after writing it—so I'm going to compromise with a glass of wine.**_

_**Let me know what you think of it. Love you all!**_

_**Always You'll Be the Blood and Soul Part of Me**_

In Jane's bed for the second time, Teresa dreamed the past.

_She felt Jane's despair as acutely as he did, a heavy weight pushing down on her chest, preventing her from drawing a full breath. The injustice of Red John's death was a thousand tiny agonies, like nails being driven into her skin._

_He'd fled the office, "to get some air," and she didn't blame him. She let him go with a sympathetic look and a promise to call her._

_Her fingers were numb, clumsy, as she sorted through the Red John files. The proof was there, documented in psychotic black and white. Angela and Charlotte had been targets long before Jane had talked publicly about looking into the cold, dark place that was Red John's soul._

_The only photographs she'd seen of Angela had been the crime scene photo and her driver's license. Now she flipped through grainy black and white images taken with a telephoto lens. Angela grocery shopping. Angela and Charlotte at the park. Angela kissing Jane goodbye as he left, presumably to meet a client._

_It felt intrusive, yet somehow necessary, to see the pictures of his old life, to understand the depth of his loss._

_Her eyes were dry and stinging and when she squeezed them shut, trying to blot the images from her brain, trying to forget the files and all the ugliness they contained._

_Trying desperately to forget that lavender ribbon._

_She believed in hell, believed Red John would suffer eternally for his crimes. Jane had no such faith, and not only was he denied vengeance, but also any sense that Red John had been held accountable, had been punished. He'd done terrible, horrifying things without ever being held responsible. It was enough to unhinge any rational person completely._

_Worse yet, Jane's entire purpose for the past decade had come to nothing. All his work, all his sacrifice, was rendered moot. The time he shot her…Wainwrights' death…Kristina's madness…O'Laughlin…all of it meant nothing._

_A cold fear settled in her gut. She remembered Jane as he'd first come to her, unbalanced and afraid. She wondered, sickly, if he'd hurt himself._

_She stood up, reaching for her purse. She shut the door to her office, locking it. The building was silent and dark, empty. She made her way to her car and then drove straight for Jane's hotel room, dreading what she might find there._

_She blew through a red light, a myriad of terrifying images flying through her mind. Jane overdosing on pills. Jane hanging from the shower curtain-rod. Jane bled out on the floor._

_It wasn't supposed to happen this way, she thought bitterly, her knuckles white on the steering wheel._

_For the past two years there had been a quiet tension between them, the occasional knowing glance, the brush of a hand. She was his boss and he was constantly monitored by a serial killer. They weren't allowed to love each other, no matter what Jane may have said in a moment of panic._

_She'd always thought they'd find Red John, they'd send him to death row, and then they'd move on with their lives. Jane would be absolved of his guilt and cleansed of obsession, and then maybe…maybe…_

Love you, Teresa.

_His words, etched forever in her brain. It seemed that they were both in a holding pattern, waiting to take Red John down, and then, if fate was kind, perhaps they could see if they were more than partners, friends. She was an adult, she'd seen the occasional look in his eyes and known what it meant. She'd felt the casual touches and known they were completely unnecessary, and lingered a moment too long._

_Every kind gesture, every cup of coffee or tea, every gentle pat on the back, it meant so much more between them because it was all they had for now. _

_But now…_

_She parked illegally in front of his building and took the stairs two at a time. She pounded on his hotel door, ready to kick it in if needed. _

_Jane opened the door on her second round of frantic pounding._

_He looked exhausted, haggard, despairing._

"_Oh, thank God," she said, breathless._

"_Lisbon?" he looked at her curiously._

"_I thought you might try to…" _

_Realization hit him and his face went tight. "No. Never that."_

_She took a deep breath and said, "Jane," and without thinking it through, moved forward and enclosed him in a tight hug. He was stiff for a moment, then relaxed against her, his arms wrapping around her, his face pressing into her neck._

_He squeezed her so tightly that she struggled for air._

_It took her a moment to recognize his trembling, and at first she thought he was crying. Then she felt his lips on her neck, her collarbone, and she went still with surprise._

"_Oh, Teresa," he said, his mouth close to her ear. He trailed soft kisses on her cheek, then found her lips. _

_It wasn't quite the kiss she'd been expecting from him. It wasn't so much filled with passion as desperation. She pulled back a little, opened her mouth to say something, but he pulled her close again and deepened the kiss. The touch of his tongue felt erratic and uncontrolled._

_Someone in the parking lot hooted at them, let out a wolf whistle._

_They parted, breathless. _

"_Jane," she said, her eyes wide. "We shouldn't. You're really vulnerable right now."_

_He looked at her for a moment, green eyes fathomless and lost. Then he sighed and said, "You're right. But I don't care. I just don't care."_

_She hesitated, her rational mind losing out to her need to comfort him, and quite frankly, to act on urges she'd felt for a long time now._

_She entered his room and shut the door behind her. They watched each other, neither moving, expressions a little desperate, breathing hard._

_It was then that she noticed his suitcase was on the bed, half open, half packed._

"_Jane?"_

"_I'm leaving, Teresa," he said. "I need to clear my head. Please." He closed his eyes, his voice haggard and pleading. "Please just stay with me tonight. I just can't be alone. We don't have to do anything, just stay with me."_

_She wanted to beg him to stay, not to run away, but she couldn't ask that of him. Under the same circumstances she might well flee too. She still felt like her heart was breaking._

_She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips softly, lovingly._

_With a sigh he kissed her back, pulled her against him. _

_Somehow they wound up on the bed. She straddled his waist, hands resting on either side of his head, as he kissed her senseless. His fingers undid the buttons of her blouse so gently that she barely felt it._

"_We shouldn't do this," she said, as he kissed a little path of fire down the side of her neck. "I think you might be having a nervous breakdown."_

_He paused with his lips against her collarbone, concentrating on pushing her shirt off her shoulders. "It's called a major depressive episode," he said._

"_Right," she whispered, then hummed a little in her throat as he skimmed his hands up her bare sides. "Still a bad idea."_

"_Terrible idea," he agreed, looking up at her now. "We should probably stop, but I don't want to."_

_She rocked back against him a little. "God help me, Jane, I don't want to either."_

_When she woke up the next morning she was naked and chilly, alone in Jane's bed. He'd left her a note. _

It meant something, Teresa. It just wasn't enough to keep me here. I'm sorry—Patrick

_That was the first time she really cried over Patrick Jane._

She woke up with an ache in her chest, dreaming of tears and disappointment. It wasn't the first time she'd had the dream, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

She wasn't a woman to pine after lost loves, but Jane had been different. His betrayals had cut deeper.

Blinking back sleep, she sat up, and realized she wasn't in her bed at James's house. She groaned as she remembered the previous night, and her stupidity in agreeing to stay with him. At least they hadn't slept together, she reflected.

As she slipped out of bed she noticed that Jane had left her prescription bottle on the bedside table. She expected to find another note next to it. She realized she'd been expecting as much all along, and part of her thought it would have been a relief to not have to face him. Another part of her thought she'd die if he left her like that again.

She padded into the hallway, the tantalizing scent of coffee greeting her. Jane was seated in the dining area, a tray of breakfast food on the table in front of him. He had a cup of tea in one hand, a book in the other.

She stood in the doorway awkwardly.

"Morning, Teresa, I hope you slept well," he said casually, sipping his tea.

She sighed and made her way for the coffee, pouring herself a cup and adding cream and sugar.

Jane looked up over the top of his book. "Feeling more rational this morning?"

"Meh," she said. She took a drink of coffee, burning her mouth a little. "I'm not going to start crying again if that's what you mean."

"I hope not, crying women make me uncomfortable," he said emotionlessly.

Her lips turned down in a scowl. He was so goddamned cold sometimes. "I'll take a shower and be out of your hair," she said flatly.

"I wasn't asking you to leave, Teresa," he replied. "I was actually going to ask you to stay."

"I thought hated crying women," she snapped.

"You're not really a crier, last night was an aberration," he said airily, setting his book down. "I was thinking you could use a little vacation. Some recovery time for that bum leg."

She scowled at him. "Are you kidding me?"

"I'm headed to my house in the Keys," he offered. "Warmth. Sunshine. Me. How can you refuse?"

"Like this," she said, standing up, setting her cup down. "Thanks for the offer, Jane. Shove it up your ass."

He tsked her. "You've really grown more hostile, you know that?"

"Are you really going to pretend everything is okay between us? That I'm just going to move in for a dirty weekend?" she asked incredulously.

"I'm asking precisely because everything is _not_ okay between us," he said, his voice hard and even. "And I'd like it to be. I'd like our friendship back, quite honestly. As you pointed out, I don't have many friends left. Any really."

She shook her head. "That's your fault, Jane."

"Do you think you'll ever call me Patrick?" he asked with a sigh. "Other than when I'm inside you?"

Her face flushed in embarrassment in anger. "You left me."

"This isn't all my fault, Teresa," he said bitterly. "You could have called me after and told me that…" He seemed to swallow something sour.

She crossed her arms. "That I was pregnant? That I miscarried? Why? You left again. Went to Vegas. Did your shtick again. I didn't even know I was pregnant until I miscarried." Her jaw working in angry motions, she said. "Like you said, 'It meant something, just not enough.'"

"Grace called me and told me. You know that?" he asked angrily. He set his tea down hard enough that it splashed out of the cup. "She didn't know it was mine, of course, she was just worried about you."

"I figured as much," she replied, staring him down, not backing off.

His eyes were burning when he said, "I had a right to know."

"You would have if you hadn't left me."

The stared each other down, the room sizzling with tension and wounded pride. Teresa felt the muscle in her leg tick angrily. When she realized he had nothing left to say she turned and went to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

From outside she heard a shattering noise, like a tea cup hitting a wall.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: I meant to get to this sooner, but reality intruded. I hope to get more done this weekend, but I also have a briefcase full of work sitting on my table, and a promise to help my mom with her business…so… Hang in there, and please, please review.

_**There's an Ocean Between Us**_

Jane crouched down and began picking up jagged pieces of porcelain, dropping them into the palm of his hand. He felt a sting and pulled his fingers back, blood welling into a perfectly round droplet on his forefinger. The pain felt distant, overshadowed by his bitterness and dismay at having fought with Teresa.

The shattered pieces of the cup were like their shared history, smooth and cool and perfect on the surface, sharp and broken on the edges. He wondered how else they could be, given that Red John was the thread that wove them together—an ugly blood-red thread in ragged stitching. No matter what happened in their lives, he was always present, an ominous shadow at their backs.

And when he died, and when Jane was _absolved_ of guilt—he was still cynical about his supposed absolution—they had started to unravel.

He finished picking up the pieces and tossed them in the trash, sucking the blood from his finger.

He knew he should never have left Teresa, not for one minute, not after the night they'd shared. She'd come to him full of trust and compassion, and he'd sullied the gift she'd given him. He'd taken her love for granted, too self-absorbed to realize what a treasure it truly was.

He'd been floundering, trying to hold his head above water. He'd felt the anger and the bitterness at being robbed of his vengeance, but more than that, learning that Angela and Charlotte had been on Red John's hit list from the get go had forced him to relive their deaths yet again.

Once more he had to walk down his hallway, passed the expensive black and white studio portraits of his family, to the ugly white door and what lay behind it. He'd been thrown back to the beginning of his grieving process, struggling with the senselessness of their murder.

Red John had been the reason he got up most mornings, the little buzzing in the back of his brain that compelled him to move forward when all he wanted to do was let himself drown. Now that the killer was dead, the buzzing had stopped, and he'd felt like a clock that had stopped running, frozen.

He'd let the cheap pleasures of old addictions propel him forward for a while, booze, gambling, the con, because it was easier than forging through his misery and grief and because he was afraid that if he stopped for just a moment he'd shut down completely. He'd felt like he could vanish at any moment; just bleed away into the scenery like a ghost.

When he'd learned she'd miscarried, he'd realized how deeply he'd failed her, and after that it had just been a shambles of self-pity and cowardice.

He'd been more or less numb for the past five years, playing the act of the celebrity without ever really enjoying it. He knew what to say and when to say it, how to look, how to behave. He no longer felt any real pleasure in it; it was just easy.

Even writing that stupid book was simple. The words appeared as if from someone else's mouth, as if being spoken by a character he'd invented rather than himself. It was all bullshit anyway. He'd written nothing about his family or his time at the CBI, much to his agent's dismay.

The only piece of truth in that pile of garbage was the dedication. It read "To TL. I never deserved you."

He'd felt guilty even associating her initials with that shameless ream of nonsense.

He paused outside the bathroom door, wanting to talk to Teresa, but also knowing that she wasn't going to let him in. He could pick the lock, but he'd pushed his luck enough for one morning.

Instead he made another cup of tea, settling into routine, trying hard not to feel.

XXX

Teresa soaked in the whirlpool tub, letting the hot water seep into her bones. It didn't reach far enough to soothe her aches.

She hadn't talked to anyone about the miscarriage, certainly not to Jane. She'd suspected Grace had called him. Teresa had been at work when it had started, a horrible cramping followed by a flow of hot, sticky blood that hadn't seemed to stop.

She'd been holed up in the bathroom, trying to clean herself up, trying to think when Grace had walked in and seen her. The other agent had realized what was happening before Teresa did. She'd been a little over a week late, and since she had an irregular cycle, hadn't thought much of it. She'd seen the truth in Grace's pitying eyes and suddenly realized what she'd lost.

Grace had no doubt worried and contacted Teresa's closest friend, Jane, hoping he could cheer her up. She would have had no idea Jane was the father.

He'd tried to call her, but she'd never picked up, too hurt and confused to speak to him. He stopped trying to reach her and she'd swallowed her disappointment and gotten on with her life.

Until a bullet cut her career short. She touched the scar under the water. It was funny how the two most devastating events of her life were both soaked in blood.

She hated the color red.

She closed her eyes and sank further back into the water.

She must have drifted off because she opened her eyes again when there was a tapping on the door. The water around her was chilly.

"Are you waiting for me to leave before you come out?" Jane asked from behind the door.

"Would it work?" she called.

"Probably not," he said. "Our flight leaves in two hours. We need to get going."

She sat up, reaching for the complimentary shampoo on the edge of the tub. It smelled too strongly of citrus. She began soaping her hair. "I'm not coming with you, Jane."

"Of course you are," he said rationally. "You want to see me or—"

"Or I wouldn't have come," she finished, her voice irritated. "There's a difference between seeing you again and running away with you."

She dunked her head under the water, missing most of his reply. When she surfaced again she heard him say the word, "Closure."

She rolled her eyes and finished washing. When she was done she grabbed a towel and a robe from the back of the door. Wrapping herself up she opened the door and found Jane standing in the hall, arms crossed, scowling.

"You don't believe in closure," she said. "You said it's a made up TV word."

He rolled his eyes. "I said 'I not inviting you so we can get closure.' Clearly you weren't listening."

She smirked. "You ignored me for ten years, it's my turn now."

"That's mature," he replied.

"Why do you even want me to come along?" she asked more seriously, watching his face for any micro expression that might betray him.

"I told you," he said slowly, as if she was an idiot, "you're still my friend. I still care about you."

"But not enough," she said hostilely.

"And I owe you," he continued, ignoring her tone, "and it would be good for you."

She shook her head, drawing the robe more closely around her body, suddenly cold.

Jane's eyes were bright and clear, like sea glass. They peered into her, seeing too much. "I know you want to come along. I know part of you still wants to be with me."

She arched an eyebrow, afraid that her voice would betray her.

"I can see your pulse tick in your neck," he said softly. "Your pupils are dilated, your breathing accelerated." He reached out and pushed a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "There's still something between us."

"It's over, Jane," she said quietly.

"If it's over, then you won't care if I kiss you," he said, his voice lazy with confidence. "You won't feel anything."

"Attraction and emotion aren't—"

But he'd slanted his mouth over hers, hot, demanding, full of wicked and lovely promises. Every time she'd kissed him she'd felt overwhelmed by sensation, like her body was opening up to some long held desire she hadn't known was there. Kissing Jane was different from kissing anyone else—it was red-hot, throbbing, and bittersweet.

It didn't take much for him to coax her into a low moan, even though she tried to swallow it back. It took even less for her to find herself pressed against the warmth of his chest, his arms tight against her back.

He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers. "Come with me, Teresa," he whispered. "Just for a little while."

It was such a bad idea, a phenomenally bad idea, but she wanted it like a junkie wanted a fix. She wanted to lock herself in the bedroom with him and pretend the last five years hadn't happened.

"If we make it a week, and you feel nothing, then I'll send you home first class," he continued. "I'll let you punch me in the face."

She ran her fingers up and down his arm, thoughtfully. "One week," she said. "I may punch you regardless."

He leaned in and nipped her ear. "You won't regret this, Teresa."


	7. Chapter 7

_**Stranger in Paradise**_

Teresa pushed him away, her hands firm on his chest. "Don't make this into something it's not, Jane," she warned.

She wanted to repair this rift between them; she felt that they owed themselves that much given their history together. She had no intention, however, of falling back into his arms and under his spell. The old Jane had been dangerous enough. Un-repentant, psychic Jane was a recipe for disaster.

She might be tempted by his kisses, but she would not sleep with him again. She would always love him, in that disapproving friendly way, but his note had made it clear to her that if she were to fall in love with him again it would be at her own peril.

She'd spent a decade resisting Patrick Jane. She could manage a week.

"I'll never make the flight," she said, backing away from his arms. "I need to get back to James's to pack."

She moved into the bedroom, searching for the dress she'd worn last night.

"I'll have clothes sent there for you," he said. "My housekeeper won't mind shopping."

He leaned against the doorjamb and studied her. "Size…4 petite?"

"You're disgusting," she remarked dryly. She noticed her dress was no longer on the chair, but a large white shirt box was. "Where are my clothes?"

"Being cleaned," he said. "I knew you'd say yes so I had the concierge fetch you something to travel in."

She turned and scowled at him. "You're an arrogant ass."

"Guilty as charged," he admitted with a grin.

She looked at the box, then back at him. He didn't move. "Leave so I can change," she demanded.

"Do I have to?" he asked petulantly.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes."

He sighed and left her be, closing the door behind him.

Irritated with his presumptions, and with the fact that she let him bother her in the first place, she slipped off the robe and opened the box. Inside were a pair of loose, knit black pants, and an oversized heather gray sweater. It was all soft and comfortable, the sort of thing that might make a plane trip more bearable. Of course he'd also included a bra and panties, both her size, that were far less practical. She looked at the black lace with a scowl. A pair of black slip-on shoes completed the outfit.

She dressed and retrieved the brush from her handbag, combing out her hair. She finished getting ready, using the complementary toiletries that the hotel provided. She didn't have make-up with her, but she never wore much anyway, and didn't care if she impressed Jane or not.

When she reappeared in the living room he was ready to leave, his luggage already gone.

"Did it all fit?" He smirked.

She slipped on her coat. "I'll need to call James."

"Already did," he replied, standing up and snatching his book from the table. "He thinks a little trip would be good for you. He seemed very pleased to hear we met up again."

"Well he doesn't know what happened between us," she replied tartly. In reality she was sure James and his wife were happy to have her out of their hair.

It was ironic, she thought, that her brother was unintentionally conspiring with Jane to get her to Florida. Had James known about Jane leaving her, and about the miscarriage, he and Tommy and Peter would have beat the blond charlatan senseless.

Jane left her in peace on the ride to airport, although he did feel the need to sit closer to her than necessary. She simply looked out the window, well aware that she'd be spending the week ignoring his advances.

When he clasped her hand across the seat, she let him hold it, but gave him no response. Her lack of interest seemed to challenge him, so he took to rubbing little circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

She was so distracted by his touch that it took her a minute to realize they'd missed the exit for O'Hare.

"Where are we going?" She sat up a little straighter.

"Private airstrip," Jane said casually. "You didn't think I fly commercial did you?"

"Heaven forbid," she replied sarcastically.

The driver pulled into a small airport and opened the door for them. Teresa watched in amazement as Jane ushered her through the easiest check in and security process she'd ever experienced. There were no lengthy waits, no struggling to slip your shoes and watch and belt back on while a line grew restless behind you.

As they were escorted to the runway to climb the steps onto the small private jet, Jane paused and grasped the shoulders of her jacket. She let him remove it, then watched in surprise as he tossed in a garbage can.

"Jane!" she scolded. "That's my sister in law's!"

"Well she should be grateful I'm disposing of that hideous thing for her," he remarked. "Besides you won't need it where we're going."

"I'll need it when I get back," she snapped.

"If you come back," he said with a wink. He puts hand on the small of her back and guided her up the stairs and onto the plane.

XXX

Teresa woke with a start, a buzzing sound pulling her out of her slumber.

She blinked against the bright light streaming through the windshield, and watched as security gate swung open, admitting them to the private driveway to Jane's Florida home.

"Sleep well?" he asked, his voice a little amused, as he pulled the car around to the front of the house.

"The flight attendant kept giving me mimosas," she complained. "And I hardly ate any breakfast."

She was little embarrassed that she'd gotten carried away with the excesses of flying privately and had a bit much to drink. Upon landing Jane had shepherded her into his waiting car, where she'd dozed off.

The house before her was actually a mansion, she realized, half hidden by tropical palms and flowering bushes. Although she couldn't see the ocean, she could hear it in the distance.

She stepped out of the car before Jane could come and open her door for her, and stood, letting the sunlight warm her face.

The mansion was all white stone and glass, built with a modern design. She imagined all those windows would be awful for someone to clean. Taking a cue from Jane's typically presumptuous behavior, she pushed open the front door and let herself in, not waiting for him. The air inside was cool, air conditioned, and the house smelled clean and new. Light streamed into the hallway from several skylights, making it feel open and bright.

Jane strolled in behind her, toting his one suitcase. "What would you like to see first?" he asked. "The pool? Bedroom?"

"Bedrooms," she corrected. "I'm not sleeping with you."

He just said, "Hmm," and walked past her to the stairs. "Feel free to poke around. Consider this your place as well."

He left alone to explore. She wandered into a large, open kitchen tricked out with stainless steel appliances. She helped herself to a bottle of water from the fridge, then strolled down the hallway and out onto a partially enclosed veranda over-looking the pool. The water was crystal clear and inviting, a shimmering, tropical, turquoise blue.

Beyond the pool, she could see the sea, glittering against the sun. It appeared that Jane had a private beach. She sighed, sipping her water. She remembered when Jane was living out of cheap, dingy motel rooms and sleeping in the attic.

Who was this man?

"Feel like a swim?"

She turned at his voice. He stood behind her, hands shoved in the pockets of khaki shorts. He wore a loose white linen shirt. He looked good enough to eat.

"I suppose you had a swimsuit delivered for me?" she asked.

"Several, each more revealing than the next," he said with relish. "Of course, if you'd like to forgo swimwear entirely and skinny dip, no one will you see you here."

"No one but you," she countered.

"I hardly count," he argued.

"You count most of all," she said dryly, then regretted her words. She turned away from him again, letting the cool sea breeze flutter against her hot cheeks.

Behind her she heard shuffling and then Jane appeared beside her for an instant before diving into the pool. She glanced back and saw his clothes lying in a heap on the ground.

He swam a lap underwater before surfacing, shaking droplets from his blond curls. His eyes looked turquoise, like the water.

She couldn't see what he was wearing beneath the surface, but it appeared it be scandalously tiny.

"You're sure I can't coax you in?" Jane asked, his smile white and perfect.

For a minute she debated getting in the water, letting his slick skin brush against hers. Then reason won out and she shook her head.

"Enjoy your swim," she said coolly. "I'm off to find my room."

"Teresa!" he called after her, laughter in his voice. "Don't be a stranger!"


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: This is me not working.

_**There's a Grace in His Ways That She Can't Contain**_

Teresa left him chuckling behind her, but his humor felt hollow.

The Patrick Jane she knew and loved had often been cavalier, and sometimes cruel, but more often than not, genuine. This man was all lovely facades and no depth.

As her feet padded across the cool marble of the floor inside the house, she realized that if anything, coming here had showed her the man she loved was gone. She could move on. It should have been a relief, but instead it was like a burn to her skin, painful and relentless.

She headed for the staircase to go upstairs and find her room. As she reached it the front door opened and a young man walked in, his arms laden with bags.

He looked startled to see her. "Ms. Lisbon?" he asked politely. "I'm sorry. I was supposed to have these here before you arrived."

"Pardon?"

The man lifted his arms, hefting the bags further into the air. "These are the clothes Mr. Jane had me pick up for you, ma'am," the man said. "I was supposed to have these unpacked for you."

She realized, with some surprise, that that man was Jane's housekeeper. She'd assumed that it would be a woman, either an older, capable woman or some bit of fluffy eye candy Jane kept around. This man was young, in his mid-twenties, she guessed, and dressed in a pair of cargo shorts and a red polo shirt. He looked more like someone's younger brother than a domestic helper.

He was also quite attractive, with dark eyes and dark hair. She suspected his background was largely Cuban.

"I'm Eduardo," he said, smiling at her. "Let me go put these in the master bedroom for you."

"Uh, no," she said with a smile, taking a few of the bags from him. "I'll be taking one of the other bedrooms, thank you."

She could see the confusion on his face, but to his credit he said nothing.

"Let me show you then," he offered.

She followed him upstairs where he gave her a tour of the four extra bedrooms. She chose one that overlooked the pool and ocean, its décor done up in soothing taupe and soft blues. The ensuite bathroom had a large tub, and was already stocked with toiletries and puffy white towels.

"Would you like for me to unpack this for you, ma'am?" Eduardo asked. He placed the bags on her dresser, and began to remove tissue-wrapped garments from them.

"No, I can manage it," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She sank into its plushness a bit. "How long have you been working for Jane?" she asked, her curiosity aroused.

"Two years," Eduardo replied. He seemed uncomfortable for a moment then added, "He's a very generous man. I …uh, actually tried to rob him."

She raised her eyebrows.

Eduardo hurried on. "I was running with a bad crowd. Mr. Jane was in Miami for a show. I saw him leaving a restaurant and tried to mug him. I was standing there, threatening him, and he's talking to me while he's handing me my wallet, telling me that he can see I was grieving, that my grandmother wouldn't have approved of me doing this…" The younger man took a breath. "My grandmother, she raised me, she'd died the year before and I went down a bad path. I was scared that he could talk to her, that he knew."

Teresa immediately felt for him, thinking of how her brothers might have turned out after their mother's death. She was surprised he was telling her this.

"Anyway," he continued. "I couldn't do it. And later, he found me, and offered me a job. At first it was just checking in on this place. Now I live in the guest house and keep it up." He shrugged.

For a moment she saw the old Jane in her mind, giving this young man a chance.

Eduardo straightened her bags uncomfortably. "You must know what it is like, when he sees into you like that."

"I do," she said quietly. She thought of all the crazy stunts he'd pulled because he thought she'd needed to smile. The origami frog. The pony. The time he'd convinced her they were dying of a super-virus. All the red-delicious apples and too-sweet cups of coffee. A pang of grief took her breath away.

He cleared his throat. "If you need anything, just dial two on the phone, and I'll pick up. Mr. Jane said he'd handle the cooking while you were here."

She shook her head ruefully. "I'm sure you're used to giving him his privacy when he has guests," she said.

Eduardo cocked his head at her. "No ma'am. He doesn't bring guests here. You're the first."

She blinked in surprise.

"I thought you must really know him well, that's why I told you how we met," he said quickly.

"I do," she reassured the young man. "I've known Jane for a long time."

She could see that Eduardo was confused, that he wanted to know her relationship to Jane. He'd clearly assumed they were lovers—or more—but her choosing a separate bedroom had thrown him.

"We were partners at the California Bureau of Investigation," she said.

"I thought I recognized you," Eduardo said.

"Recognized?"

"From the picture in his room." He shrugged and excused himself. "If you need anything…"

"Dial two," she finished.

She waited until he closed the door and then flopped back onto the bed. Now she was well and truly puzzled. Jane was rescuing young men from a life of crime. Jane had a picture of her in his bedroom. Jane didn't bring women here.

She was certain he hadn't been celibate, although to be fair, neither had she. In the past five years she'd had a few one night stands, each more empty that the next.

She sat up and sorted through her bags, finding more clothes than she could possibly need for a week. Unlike Jane's earlier implication, the swimwear wasn't terribly scandalous. It was all two- piece, but nothing she'd feel ashamed to wear.

She put on a black bikini and applied sunscreen she found in the bathroom. Then she pulled a light, white sundress on over it. The ruching was tight across her bust, the skirt loose and flowing nearly to the floor. She topped it off with a black straw hat.

Quietly she stepped out into the hallway, listening for sounds of someone else upstairs. Once secure in the silence she padded to the master bedroom and let herself in. The room was simple and somehow masculine, all dark blue and cool shadow in the late afternoon light. There was a single picture on the bedside table. She walked over it to it and picked up the heavy frame. It was a photo taken at one of the CBI holiday parties. She was standing with her arm around Jane, smiling.

Rigsby had taken that picture.

For a moment, her throat tightened.

"Didn't take you long to find your way in here," Jane said from the door.

She gasped and nearly dropped the frame. Her hand flew to her chest reflexively. "Jeez, Jane!"

He shrugged. "Sorry. I thought you heard me walk in. I wasn't sneaking up on you, Teresa."

He was still damp from the pool, his hair wet and nearly brown. He wore nothing but a towel around his waist. Water trickled down his stomach. She realized he'd actually gone a bit thin. She flushed. It was no longer her concern whether he was eating enough or not.

She set the picture down carefully.

"So, did you decide which side of the bed you want?" he asked seductively, coming up behind her and planting a kiss on her bare shoulder. She moved away from his touch. His skin felt cold from the pool.

"I'm sleeping down the hall," she replied.

"You can do your sleeping wherever you like," he replied smoothly. "Although I'm not opposed to a bit of a cuddle."

"Nice try," she said dryly, and started edging toward the door.

"You're the one sneaking into my bedroom," he said, clearly amused. "Can you blame me for jumping to conclusions?"

"I wanted to see the picture," she retorted. "Eduardo said he recognized me from it."

Jane seemed conflicted about what to say for a moment. She could tell something glib was on his tongue, but instead he said, "Well, you didn't think I had forgotten, did you?"

She shifted uneasily. "Kind of."

"Hmm," he mused. "I'm going to shower before dinner," he said, then tossed the towel on the floor. He was naked underneath.

"Jesus Jane!" she exclaimed, turning away as she caught a glimpse of his taught backside.

"What?" he asked, strolling across the room to the bathroom like he didn't have a care in the world. "You've seen it all before."

"Under different circumstances," she spat, risking a glance at him. God, he really was beautiful.

"Feel like joining me?" he asked from the bathroom. She heard the shower start.

She groaned in frustration, partly at his cheek, partly at her desire to get under the spray with him and spend the afternoon making love.

Frustrated at herself, and at him, she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

X X X

The lure of a chaise longue by the pool kept her interest for an hour, as she lay back and let the sun bake her skin.

When the light began to wane and evening approached, she got up and headed for the beach. The soft roar of the waves was soothing and she relished the way her feet sank deeper in the soft wet sand.

The beach seemed to stretch for quite a distance without another house in sight. She wasn't sure how Jane had pulled that off, but she began to walk, curious as to how isolated they were. Her leg began to stiffen up, and she dropped her hat and cover up in the sand and waded out into the warm ocean.

The waves and undertow were a bit strong initially, but she swam out to where the water was calmer, and floated, letting her quad muscle relax and the water support her.

The horizon was bleeding pink into lavender, the first few stars making their appearance on the horizon as she closed her eyes and drifted, content to let the sea support her.

Her peaceful swim was suddenly interrupted by frantic splashing and she opened her eyes in time to see Jane's blond hair burst from the water next to her, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist.

"Jane!" she gasped, swallowing a mouthful of saltwater as his lunge sent a wave her way.

"Teresa," he panted, tugging her tightly against him.

"What the hell!" she cried, shoving at him, but his grip was vise-like.

"Are you insane?" he asked, water streaming down into his frantic eyes.

She realized he was supporting her completely, his legs kicking beneath the surface to keep them afloat. His expression was panicked, agonized.

"What you talking about?" she demanded. She paddled her arms beside him, still in his embrace.

"Are you trying to drown?" he asked incredulously. "It's dusk and your drifting out to sea."

She shoved damp tendrils of hair from her eyes. "I was floating, Jane, I was fine."

"Swimming at dusk is a bad idea, Teresa," he said savagely. "I couldn't find you, then I walk down the beach and see you bobbing halfway to nowhere."

"I'm fine," she snapped.

His grip around her waist tightened and the sight of his terror-filled eyes broke through her annoyance. He'd really believed she was going to drown.

Sighing she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him dangerously close. "I was fine," she said more gently, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

They stayed there for a bit, floating in a soft purple sea, as his breathing slowed down. Even when she began to shiver, he seemed reluctant to let her go. His hands skated from her waist, up her back, and down again, in motions that she suspected were as much to soothe him as her. Finally he placed a damp kiss on her temple.

When he pulled back she saw kindness in his green eyes, the irreverent love she'd missed so much. "Can you swim back?" he asked.

She nodded but stayed close to him as they made their way to shore.

The slog up the beach was difficult, with the undertow trying to pull her back, and Jane helped pull her out of the ocean and onto the sand. Trembling with fatigue, and something more profound, she reached for her sundress and tugged it on over her bathing suit.

Jane had pulled his tee-shirt off on the beach, but had left his shorts on. They were soaked. He used the shirt to dry his face, but didn't pull it back on.

When he turned back to her, he seemed guarded again, but his veil of wickedness was gone. Now he just looked…tired.

Without asking, he grasped her hand and they made their way back to his home silently, as the moon rose over the ocean.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: I'm going to be out of the country for a week, starting Sunday. I'm hoping to get another chapter in between now and then._

_Let Me Dive in to Pools of Sin_

The night was inky black and salt tinged as they made their way down the beach. The lights from his house glowed like a beacon, icy blue-white.

Jane wanted to stay in the gloam with her, to hide in the shadows. If they stayed in the shadows, then she couldn't see his face, his scars. She couldn't see the horror in eyes at the thought that he might have driven her to suicide; she couldn't see the shame when he realized he wasn't important enough to her to push her to something like that.

More than anything she couldn't see the desperation in his expression, the need to hold her and taste her again.

He'd run away because if he's stayed within arm's length of Teresa, he would have been powerless to control himself. He would have lost himself in her again and again, promising her things he couldn't deliver. He would have haunted her like a ghost, unable to love her the way she deserved, unable to walk away.

She was addicting, soft, small, sweetly perfumed, all those things men wrote sonnets about once. She was passionate and good, strong—so much better than him. How could he not want her?

He stopped short, toes digging into the sand, hand squeezing hers. She was jerked short where they were connected at the hand.

"Jane?" she asked. Her face was ghostly white in the night.

He swallowed thickly. He felt himself shaking.

He needed her.

He'd always needed her.

He pulled her against him, using surprise to his advantage. She was so slight against his body, willowy and delicate. She always seemed larger than she really was, so strong in spirit that she should have been a giant.

Wrapping his arms around her back, he leaned down and kissed her. His was trembling with warring needs, to be gentle with her, and to take what he so desperately wanted. She stiffened in his arms, but he ignored it, slanting his mouth over hers, parting her lips with his. His tongue filled her mouth, possessive and urgent. She tasted like salt water and mint.

She gasped, and a little roughly, bit his tongue.

A hot copper taste tinged his mouth.

He wasn't sure if she was trying to fend him off, or urge him on. It didn't matter. That little sting of pain, a quicksilver sensation, thrilled him down to the soles of his feet. Groaning he reached down and picked her up by the backs of her thighs, hoisting her against him.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. Their lips never parted.

Her nails were rough on the skin of his shoulders, her tongue matching his, hot, velvet soft. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her bikini top cold along the fever-heat of her skin.

He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. It was like they were caught in an undertow, being rolled in deep dark water, again and again, unable to surface to catch their breath.

She inhaled when he sank to his knees in the sand, kissed his ear when he laid her down and came to rest over her.

She slipped her fingers down the back of his shorts, nails gently scratching the skin of his buttocks.

He found her mouth again, swollen and sweet, yearning to be filled, as he reached down and slid his hand up and under the skirt of her cover up, along her thigh. He found her swimsuit bottom, and slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, tugging it down.

Whip-fast her hand shot out and stopped his, her grasp surprisingly tight. She wedged her knee between them and shoved him off her with a rough thrust. He stumbled back, landing on his ass in the sand, letting out a huff of shock.

"No," she said savagely. "Not again."

In the half-light he could see her pushing her still wet hair from her eyes.

"Teresa," he said, his voice soft, half pleading, "I'm sorry. I just…"

He wanted to come up with some slick and shallow to say, something to deflect his pain and embarrassment, but he suddenly felt as awkward as a teenager being rejected in the backseat of his father's car.

"No," she repeated, her voice glacial. "You need to understand, Patrick. You need to understand what happened last time."

"Teresa."

She sucked in a breath, not letting him finish. "I could deal with being some one night stand for you, something cheap and easy." Her words cut his skin like glass, leaving jagged patterns of regret.

"But then, I'm alone in my office and it starts," she continued. "I feel this pain, this horrible cramping pain, and I don't understand, Patrick. I don't know what's happening. And when the bleeding starts, it's hot and messy, and I can't stop it."

She was speaking fast now, words coming out in an angry torrent. "And I'm alone. When I realize that I'm losing the baby, I'm all alone, and I don't know what to do. I didn't even know how much I wanted that baby until I was standing there with blood on my hands, and _you weren't there_."

His throat went tight and dry. His eyes stung.

"I could have been a single mother. I could have been happy with it, but I didn't even have that. You came into my life and you left me with _nothing_."

She wasn't screaming, she wasn't yelling at him, that was the worst part, the calm, utterly rational disappointment in her voice.

In some ways he felt like he'd failed her more profoundly than he'd failed Angela.

His breathing was hard, and he thought he might scream or cry or just pass out, but instead all that pent up emotion slithered down deep inside him, dark and oily.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, knowing how little it meant.

She stood up, brushing the sand off her white skirt, tugging her bikini into place. "You are sorry, but it's not enough. I've said my peace, Jane. I think I've done what I came here to do."

She left him sitting in the damp, cold sand as she walked back to the house.

She left him in dark where he belonged.

XXX

Teresa was crying softly when she got back to his house. She blinked as she entered a pool of bright outdoor lights, wiping at her eyes.

Part of her felt relieved, a veil of pain lifting from her body. Part of her wanted to go back to him, to hold his head against her and sob for what they both had lost. Part of her wanted to take comfort in his body, however he was able to give it.

She passed the pool, glowing like a turquoise jewel in the night, and walked into the house, tracking sand on the marble floor and then the plush carpet of the stairs.

She left dirty footprints all the way to her room, where she closed the door behind her and pulled the curtains against the sea breeze. She stripped, feeling pale and shaky, and started a hot shower.

The bathroom was too clean and white, sterile. She leaned over the sink to study herself in the mirror. She looked wan, her hair plastered to her neck and her cheeks, her eyes large and dark. She looked like a creature from the deep of the ocean, washed up alone on shore.

Steam clouded the glass, slowly obscuring her reflection until she melted away into the fog.

She stepped into the shower, letting hot pellets of water bounce against the skin of her arms and chest, not really feeling them. The tears came back, tears for a love that wasn't real and for a child that wasn't meant to be. The loss left an aching, empty chasm in her gut.

She heard the door open, had expected it really. She hadn't locked it intentionally.

Jane stepped into the large shower behind her, still dressed in his shorts, his legs covered in sand.

She didn't bother to hide her nudity; there was little point. He had seen everything there was to see, and quite honestly, it didn't seem important.

She was still sobbing, half bent at the waist.

He said nothing, but wrapped his arms around her from behind. Carefully they sank to the floor, her back resting against his chest, her body cradled between his legs. She held onto his arms for dear life and let her grief pour out of her as the water pounded down on both of them.

He rested his cheek against her neck, and belatedly she realized he was crying too.

Steam curled around them in wisps when he said, "I would have loved the child too."

She entwined her fingers with his. He rocked her slowly, and together they mourned for what they'd lost.

When the water had gone cold and she was trembling, Jane helped her up, shutting the shower off. He opened the glass door and found a fluffy white towel, taking his time drying her. He blotted her face gently, wrung her hair out.

Only when she was completely dry did he quickly towel off.

She was exhausted, her limbs liquid and useless. She let him pick her up and carry her to the bed. She said nothing when he tucked her in, wrapping the soft sheets around her shoulders. Her eyes felt heavy, her heart drained of everything.

She felt his kiss against her cheeks, her eyelids, and for a second he was her friend again.

As she fell asleep she heard him say, "I'm so sorry, Reese. I'm sorry I can't be the man you need."


	10. Chapter 10

_**Author's Note: Thanks to all of you for being so patient with me. Thanks to Starry19, Brette O'Connell and Nerwen Aldarion for encouraging me to keep going when I was procrastinating. **_

_**Leave and Let Me Go**_

Teresa woke slowly, her body heavy-limbed and eyes blurred. She had slept deeply and dreamlessly, drugged by her emotional release. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, flickering across her bedspread as the breeze stirred them.

She could feel the emptiness in the house, Jane's absence. Her awareness of it was almost preternatural, and she knew he had fled during the night. Dread settled into her as she glanced at the bedside table for another crushing note. The surface was bare except for the lamp and alarm clock. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted.

She wasn't surprised. For as long as she'd known him, he'd hidden behind glib remarks and careful masks. Patrick Jane didn't sob with grief or rage with anger, at least not in front of her. He had stayed with her for part of the night; she remembered him caressing her hair, whispering softly to her. She had struggled to stay awake, to cling to his tender comforting, but exhaustion had won out in the end.

Her leg was stiff when she slipped from the bed, putting her weight on it. She stretched the muscle carefully, feeling it start to warm up and give.

Hunger compelled her to brush her hair and dress in a sundress so she could make her way downstairs. She would help herself to some breakfast before planning her departure. She suspected Jane would have left his car at her disposal or at least money for a plane ticket home. He'd always been generous with his money, always considerate that way if he wasn't in others.

The Caribbean blue dress floated around her legs as she descended the staircase and made her way to the kitchen. The room was quiet except for the soft drone of the refrigerator. With relief she noticed the coffee pot sitting on the counter—one of those expensive models that also made espresso drinks and foamed milk. She toyed with the settings for a moment, making herself a latte and inhaling the rich, caffeinated scent the machine gave off. It appeared totally new, and she guessed Jane had asked Eduardo to pick it up for her.

Drink in hand she scoured the cupboards and pushed aside more healthful options like muesli for a croissant. Little golden flakes drifted down her dress as she ate, wandering the first floor in her bare feet.

Down two carpeted steps from the kitchen and dining room was the living room. It was all soothing white and soft pastel tones. The sofa looked expensive, but not particularly comfortable. A large flat panel TV hung on one wall, but there were no books or newspapers or any other detritus that would suggest Jane actually used the room.

She finished the last bite of croissant and wandered down the hall, past a bathroom, laundry room and wine cellar. The door at the end of the hallway was shut. Sipping her latte, she pushed it open.

Light flooded into the room, but it was rendered a muted lime green from passing through the thick tropical greenery that grew outside the windows. The walls were lined with built-in bookshelves, filled with an assortment of literature, from pulp to the classics to more esoteric works. There was a worn leather sofa in the center of the room, directly below a lazily spinning ceiling fan.

It was a masculine space, all dark wood and old leather, but Jane had selected a few prints of tropical birds and fish to hang on the walls, and potted plants grew haphazardly near the windows. It had a vaguely tropical-colonial feel to it.

A poker table sat in one corner, covered in blood red baize, and knick-knacks were placed on the bookshelves at odd intervals: seashells, brightly polished coins, small handmade pots and cups. The room also hadn't been dusted or meticulously straightened like the rest of the house.

She knew at once that this was Jane's room, and that no one else was allowed here.

She brought the rapidly cooling mug to her lips as she perused the book titles on one shelf. To her left, something glinted in the sunlight. She turned to find a small table half hidden by an overgrown spider plant. It was covered in small silver frames.

Faces smiled up at her, frozen in time and in their joy. She recognized Angela instantly from the few pictures she'd seen. Charlotte looked so much like her father that for a moment her throat constricted painfully. The photos were black and white, professionally taken. Then there were a series of candid shots, but not of Jane's family. Van Pelt and Rigsby, standing with their arms around each other, trying desperately to pretend they weren't in love. Cho not smiling, but with a glimmer in his eyes.

And several pictures of her. She hadn't realized that they'd taken that many at holiday parties, CBI anniversaries, birthdays. Only one was of her and Jane, in the rest she was by herself, smiling a little self-consciously.

Her portrait sat next to Angela and Charlotte's. Her own face looked back up at her from beside Jane's wife and child.

Her fingers felt numb.

"What are you doing in here?"

She turned and gasped, her mug slipping from her hand and shattering at her feet. Lukewarm coffee sprayed across her toes.

Jane stood in the doorway, not angry, but clearly surprised. He was dressed in shorts and loose, long-sleeved shirt, but he was damp as if he'd just finished a swim.

"I thought you left last night," she stammered, feeling like a kid who got caught reading her mother's diary.

"I went surfing at dawn," he explained. He glanced at her feet. "Don't move. You'll cut yourself."

"You surf?" she asked lamely.

"Yes," he replied dismissively, coming to crouch beside her. He wore a pair of sandals that protected his feet from the ceramic shards. He picked up the largest pieces and tossed them in a wicker trash basket. Then he stood, and without another word, picked her up and carried her away from the mess.

"Jane," she warned, but she also didn't want to cut her feet. Her arms linked around his neck as if their own volition.

"I'll clean it up later," he muttered. Instead of setting her down, he carried her out of the room as if he didn't like her in his sanctuary. He kicked the door closed behind him, but kept her in his arms until they reached the kitchen. He set her down so she was sitting on the granite counter.

She let her hands trail down his chest, her legs brushing his. She relished the feel of him, close and warm and real. "I thought you ran away again," she muttered. "Everything felt so empty when I woke."

"Just an illusion," he replied quietly. Then he said, "You're covered in crumbs, woman."

She looked down self-consciously. "I found the croissants."

"Ah." He smiled. "You're wearing most of them in your cleavage."

She remembered the previous night, Jane's face buried against her breasts, pressing urgent kisses to her skin. Her toes curled a little.

The stood awkwardly for a moment, still touching, not willing to part. She wanted to be dismissively and aloof, but after spending the previous night naked with Jane in the shower (both physically and emotionally) it seemed like a wasted effort. She'd told him all the hurtful, bitter things she'd held inside, and they'd shared their grief together. The cards were on the table, so to speak.

Finally she said, "It felt good last night, getting all that off my chest. It felt like…"

"A catharsis," he said quietly. His eyes were somber, green as glass and fathomless.

It wasn't the word she would have used. It was cleansing, but more than that it was it was the first step in letting an angry red wound heal over. She'd been picking at the scar for five miserable years, not even aware she was doing it.

"I needed to do that, to tell you those things," she said, hating how her voice rasped. "I needed to have that cry with you so I can move on."

She felt a little lighter now. She felt like she would always look back sadly at their past, but that she might start looking toward her future, bleak as it felt.

He lowered his gaze, his expression inscrutable. He picked a flaky crumb from her bust, tossing it idly on the floor. "I'll never be able to make amends for what I did to you," he said. "But I do want to try, Teresa. I really do." There was so much regret in his voice.

She arched an eyebrow. She was tired now, but absent of pain. She didn't even have the energy to think about Jane making it up to her; she just wanted to move on, to leave it lie.

"How can you make amends, Jane? It's really over, and I don't mean that cruelly. We acted on impulse when we shouldn't have, and there were consequences. We hurt each other, _badly_. My biggest regret is the friendship we destroyed."

She saw pain flash through his eyes, and it startled her at how it intense it was.

"That was your biggest regret?" he asked bitterly. "Our friendship?"

"I valued our friendship," she replied, a little hotly.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it quickly. "I want to make this up to you," he repeated.

She shook her head. "There's nothing to 'make up.' It's over."

Again that pain and rage flickered deep inside his eyes, like lightning in a far away storm.

He let out a frustrated groan, then leaned forward and kissed her fully on the mouth, his lips softening on hers. She sighed, but let him kiss her, let it wash over her with pleasure and want.

When he pulled back he said, "Stay with me."

"I already said I would," she argued. "One week."

"As lovers," he interrupted. "Let me spoil you and pamper you the way you deserve. For once let me take care of you, Teresa, like you took care of me for all those years."

An image of a bedraggled Jane flashed in her mind, one where he was lost, newly discharged from the mental institution.

It was such a wickedly tempting offer, to slide into something superficial and easy with him. The idea of not being responsible, of letting Jane support her just for a little while, just until she was a little less broken was such a darkly appealing thing…

"If this is about sex…" she began.

"I owe you so very much," he said. "And this is all I have to give."

His words were flat, final.

She squeezed her eyes closed and leaned back, away from his touch. It was such a colossal mistake. She needed to be back in the Midwest, where it was cold and gray, and she could be alone, trying to piece her life back together.

She didn't need to be with Jane. She didn't need to be taken care of. She had a life to figure out.

Later.

Hating herself a little she said, "okay."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Some of you have been very nice and asking me about this story. I have been so very, very stuck with it.

So I just went with sex. Consider yourself warned.

**Carry On**

Once the word left her lips, Teresa expected to feel a change in the atmosphere, a barometric drop that signaled the beginning of a new relationship.

She had expected Jane to pounce on her, to push her back against the granite countertop and make love to her the way he'd been teasing about. She expected it to feel cold somehow.

None of that happened.

He seemed surprised by her answer, his eyes widening just a little bit. It was hard to read his expression, but she thought she saw relief, and it made her chest feel tight. Had Patrick Jane been afraid of rejection? The thought boggled the mind.

She reached out and touched a soft blond curl, letting her fingers weave into his hair. He was going a tiny bit gray at the temples.

Without thinking about it, she pulled him toward her, brushing a soft, warm kiss against his mouth. It was gentle, sweet. His hand found the small of her back and dragged her forward across the counter so she was pressed firmly against him, her legs dangling on either side of him.

When she opened her mouth, touched her tongue to his, he pulled back, pressing a hot kiss to her neck, holding her tight. He kept his face tucked into her shoulder, his hands firm on her back. His breathing was ragged.

"I thought you wanted…" she muttered.

She felt him chuckle against her skin. "Oh, Reese, if you only knew." He stood back, regarding her seriously. "Let's do this right this time, okay?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Felt pretty right the first time."

His smile faded, pupils dilating. "Yeah it did," he said quietly. "Just trust me, okay?"

She sighed. "Not likely," she said, the immediately regretted her words. She felt the way they cut as deeply as she knew he did.

An awkward pause hung between them and she fidgeted, curling her toes. The coffee had dried on her foot and felt sticky and tight.

She took his hand in hers and said, "So how does this pampering thing work?"

He pulled her down from the counter, leading her to the patio doors. "Let me show you," he said, pushing the glass door open and leading her out into the bright sunlight.

She blinked against it and felt the humidity hit her like a damp blanket. The wooden decking was warm under her feet, and she could smell the ocean, hear the occasional call of a gull.

He had a chaise lounge set up by the pool, covered in a fluffy yellow towel. Beside it was a small glass table holding a stack of books and magazines, a pitched of iced tea and a glass, and a pair of designer sunglasses. A single flower, some bright pink tropical thing, rested next to the glasses.

"Nice to see you had this all set up ahead of time," she remarked dryly. It was nice, but felt contrived. She much preferred stolen kisses, moments when he let himself be surprised.

Patrick Jane. Controlling. Secretive.

"I figured I'd get you to stay even if I had to beg," he replied arrogantly. "Would you like me to move the chair to the shade?"

She shook her head, sitting down and stretching her legs out in front of her. "The sun is nice." She looked up at him, blinking in the light. "So this is the plan? Let me sunbathe?"

"Part of the plan," he said. He sat down on the edge of the chair and reached over to the table. He procured a tube of sunscreen and squirted it into his palm. "I watched you function on five or six hours of sleep for ten years," he explained. "Sitting in your office all alone at night, doing useless paperwork, wasting your life."

She almost told him that part of the reason she worked those late nights was to be near him. She remembered the intimacy of her half dark office, Jane dozing on her couch.

"Do you even know how to just sit and read?" he asked, gently taking her ankle in his hand. He pushed her dress up to her knees and began to massage the sunscreen into her calf.

She bit her lip as a slow burn worked its way up her leg to her core. Just the feel of his large, warm hand was enough to unsettle her.

"Probably not, no," she admitted, her voice a little dry.

She remembered the last time he'd had his hands on her like that.

_She paused for breath as he pushed her shirt from her shoulders and down her arms. The sleeves caught at her wrists and she tugged them off awkwardly. His gaze was dark and molten as he took in the sight of her body, her breasts half hidden behind a functional black bra. She didn't think a man had ever looked at her that way before._

_She felt like she was about to consumed._

_When his fingers brushed the clasp she felt them tremble. Teresa realized that, Lorelei aside, it had been a very long time for him. _

_She took pity on him, removed the garment herself. Suddenly she was half naked, exposed, and he was still fully clothed, vest and all. She almost rolled her eyes. Of course he'd be the one at an advantage._

_She wasn't ashamed of her body, but somehow she feared his judgment. When he leaned upward and captured her nipple with his lips she arched in pleasure and felt strangely gratified._

_His hands were rough on her back. He wanted this. He needed this._

_For the first time since they'd met, he wasn't putting on a show. This was the real Patrick Jane._

_Her fingers fumbled with his waistcoat, his shirt buttons. He shrugged off both almost frantically, siting up so she was in his lap. His chest was pale, unsurprisingly so. She ran her hands down his chest to his waist, her hands working his belt._

"_Wait," he said raggedly. "Wait."_

_He rolled them so she was beneath him, and began to pull her slacks off, snagging them on her shoes and cursing as he tried to untangle them._

_She couldn't help it. She laughed. _

_He glanced up at her, his eyes serious but amused. "Woman," he warned._

_She took pity on him and kicked off her shoes, her slacks._

_His hands rested on the back of her calves, caressing her there while he looked at her naked body, drank her in. He traced the band of her panties, a feather-light caress, almost reverent._

"_I didn't think…" he said hoarsely. "What you would look like. I didn't let myself wonder."_

_She felt remarkably exposed. "Patrick," she said. And she reached for him._

Teresa felt Jane's caress stop, her skin cool where his hands had been.

She swallowed thickly, looking at him at the end of her longue, watching her.

She felt her cheeks flush, caught in the act of remembering, fantasizing.

"I'll get you some ice," he said hoarsely, "for your tea."

He knew exactly what she had been thinking about, she realized, and for some reason he wasn't acting on it.

She watched him walk to the house and felt lost. When they were at each other's throats this was easy…but now?

She scowled, and sank back in dismay.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: So I should be sleeping, but instead I'm drinking a beer and writing this. I blame Starry19. Go read the Art of Sanctuary. She got me thinking all about Jane and cuddling and fondling and now look.**

**Also the italicized bit is Mish. So yeah.**

**A Shadow Every Day and Night**

Strange how the memory of Teresa's hands on his skin, of her lips on his, could terrify him so. Jane retreated back into the kitchen, letting the air conditioning hit him full-force, tail tucked between his legs.

He opened a cupboard door and selected a glass, setting it on the counter. He planted his hands on either side of it, the granite cool against his palms, and he leaned forward and took deep breaths. He marveled at what a coward he was.

It had been so easy to flirt with her, to push her boundaries, to frighten her a little. He had enjoyed it, because it had been the superficial sexuality he'd always used as a buffer between himself and anything meaningful. He was full of charm and wickedness, and none of it meant a goddamned thing.

Then he'd touched her leg, so smooth and white, and he'd remembered how it had felt against his palm the_ last_ time, and it had paralyzed him.

_Her eyes were large and dark, a fine circle of emerald around large black pupils. She looked at him with a mixture of desire and love, unmistakable love._

_He'd known for a while. How could he not?_

_He'd pushed Teresa Lisbon's boundaries past the point of sanity. He'd betrayed her. He'd lied and cheated, and saint that she was, she'd always stood by him. Only love made a person do that, the sort of selfless, unconditional love that he most certainly didn't deserve._

_In that moment he was reduced to nothing, to a mass of shame and regret. He buried his face in her belly, pressing hot kisses just below her navel, hiding himself from her. He felt her stomach tremble under his touch, her fingers reaching down to brush the crown of his head._

_He wondered how many years he'd wasted hunting for a man who would never be brought to justice. How many years of kissing Teresa's pale abdomen had he squandered on a pointless revenge?_

_Flames of desire licked at his shame, burning away all the tender, pensive feelings he'd been having. He ran his tongue along her skin, until he found the cotton of her panties, unpleasantly rough compared to the silk of her skin._

_He lifted his head and drew them down her legs, tossing them on the floor behind him. _

_She was naked now, her breathing harsh, making her chest rise and fall erratically. Jane felt like a greedy child. He wanted her, all of her, all at once, all to himself._

_He kissed her thigh, then the sweet thatch of dark hair between her legs. He could smell the wonderfully musky scent of her arousal as he pressed his nose into the softness there. He moved to taste her, to revel in the sensation of it, but she scooted back on the bed, knocking his chin with her thigh._

"_No, I don't…" Her voice was shaky._

_He looked up and saw the depth of her blush. Her cross was glowing against her skin._

_His sweet Saint Teresa. _

_He crawled up her body and kissed her mouth instead, soothing her embarrassment. She fumbled with his belt and he let her unzip him. She pushed his pants down his hips, but they were trapped, bunched up where he was pressed against her legs._

_He was half in his shirt, half out of his pants, climbing all over her like a horny teenager. The thought made him laugh a little, and he rested his forehead against hers._

_She grinned up at him, mischievously. "Maybe you should just take your clothes off?" There was a hint of desperation in her request._

_He slid from the bed and quickly divested himself of his vest and shirt. His pants, socks, underwear all came off in a hurried movement. When he glanced up she was reclining, propped up on her elbows, studying him._

_She was biting her lip a little. He could see the anticipation in her eyes, the pleasure at doing something forbidden._

_He wondered if she always felt that way about sex or if it was just sex with _him_._

_Jane opened his mouth, but she said quickly, "If you ask me if I'm sure about this, I will punch you in the nose."_

_He closed his mouth with a click, then took a quick breath and said, "Yes ma'am."_

_She blushed again. "Shut up and come here."_

_It was the sweetest invitation ever. _

_She sat up and pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around his neck, leaning up to kiss him. He let her tug him down beside her, let her roll him beneath her. He wanted to push her back into the mattress and drive her insane with pleasure for a few hours. He wanted to make her mindless, just to prove he could, that he was the man who knew her better than anyone else._

_Instead he gave her control, just for a few moments, because he knew she needed it. She was feeling vulnerable about acting on their unspoken desires._

_She smoothed her hands down his chest, across his stomach. Her cross dangled in front of his face, swaying back and forth hypnotically._

_She smiled when she took him in her hand, breaking into a wider grin when he moaned and arched into her touch. Her eyes were bright, kind, giving._

_He felt something tight and hard loosen in his chest, like a stone breaking away from a cliff. He needed to slow down. He needed to treasure this._

Jane felt a rivulet of sweat trickle down his back, even though it was cool in the kitchen.

That night, that one precious night where he'd found so much pleasure with her, such peace. He had always meant to keep that night sacred in his memory palace, but now it was tainted with how badly he'd failed her.

He didn't know exactly when he and Angela had made Charlotte. They had been trying for a baby, so it could have been any one of a handful of nights. None of them stood out as especially prescient in his memory.

Somehow he'd never thought he'd get Teresa pregnant. Intellectually he'd known it was possible, but somehow he'd believed the universe had robbed him of his ability to be a father. He didn't deserve to be a father.

When he'd woken up, she had been curled on her side, facing away from him, deeply asleep.

He had needed, space, air. He was still processing Red John's death, the meaningless of it. He had been crumbling from a loss of faith. It wasn't faith in God, but faith in the long game. He was either going to end up dead at Red John's hands or Red John dead at his. Theirs had been an inevitable meeting.

Except it hadn't.

Red John's death had just been another meaningless event in a meaningless world. It was chance that the serial killer had targeted his family, chance that he'd died of a coronary event.

Ten years of planning, ten years of counting on revenge, revenge that kept him going, had dissolved into ashes.

And then he'd crossed the final line. He'd slept with Teresa. All his carefully laid out rules were being wiped away.

So he'd run. He'd intended to come back once he'd had time to think, to figure out what his future would be now.

That's when Grace had called.

Miscarriage.

Jane pushed that ugly word from his mind and went to the fridge, pushing the glass beneath the ice dispenser. The clunking sound of the ice hitting the tumbler was almost painfully loud in the quiet house. The glass was cold in his hand.

A part of him felt like it was his fault Teresa had lost their baby. He thought, crazily, that if he'd stayed, if he'd been good enough, everything would have been fine.

He'd failed his family twice.

The minute Grace told him that Teresa had lost her baby, that she was scared and alone, he'd known she'd never forgive him. He couldn't blame her; he'd never forgive himself either. He'd done the kindest thing he could think of; he vanished. He fell back into the easy routine of his conman days and left Teresa to heal.

He hadn't expected to ever see her again. He didn't deserve to, that was for damn sure. When she appeared back stage, wounded and angry, he realized what an ass he'd been. He also realized that the best he could offer after so much betrayal was some easy comfort, some cheap glamour.

The glass began to sweat as he stood there, pondering his actions like a fool. He carried it outside, set it down next to Teresa, and poured the iced tea into it.

She was reclining in her chair, ankles crossed lazily. She had on the sunglasses, a book open on her stomach. She looked at once relaxed and resigned, the drape of the soft blue sundress outlining her newly curvy body.

It was shameful how much he still wanted her after what he'd done, how much he wanted to bury his face in her stomach again and seek out comfort.

She glanced up at him over her sunglasses, and he realized he was staring like an idiot.

He smiled at her, all dazzle and no substance.

She returned the smile, a little wearily, and returned to her book. The heat between them from moments ago was gone.

He'd make love to her, like he'd promised. He just needed a moment to clear his head.

He'd show that what they shared five years ago had been a lie, that he couldn't give her the love he'd seen reflected in her eyes. He was empty.

Once she realized that, she could move on. She could be happy again. It was a kindness really.

He was sure of it.


End file.
